Burlesque
by LadyVegeets
Summary: The Red Neutron: the best burlesque house in the galaxy, with one Bulma Briefs as the main show. When Prince Vegeta is dragged along against his will, he learns some very hard lessons about female vanity, and himself. (Based on VEGETApsycho's art piece, 'burlesque', which is also the cover art, and used with her gracious permission. AU obviously.)


**NB:** Inspired by VEGETApsycho's art piece by the same name, _Burlesque_. Check her out on twitter, tumblr, deviantart and batreon (p not b). No really, DO EET. You'll thank me later ;)

 **Burlesque**

 **Ch01**

She was what the girls called, 'Miss Saturday'. All the best dancing girls worked a night being 'the big show', the final act, the main event. But only the best of the best got the time slot on what was considered the galaxy's 'Saturdays', and Bulma, well, she was _the best_.

As the best, she also had her finger on the pulse of the business, and even from before they opened, Bulma could tell tonight wasn't going to be a typical Saturday. Her manager was sweating and barking orders more than usual. He was actually telling the barmaids to have the glasses and tables _clean_ for once and not just _look clean_. And he was micromanaging everyone, including her. After he asked for the third time if she needed anything, Bulma snapped and asked him what was up.

"Special guests," was all he muttered, and Bulma shrugged, giving it little more thought because hell, they were always having special guests. They were the swankiest, most respectable burlesque venue this side of the galaxy, and being Miss Saturday meant Bulma often had to entertain people of great notoriety. Which is why it was odd that her manager was sweating bullets over these special guests in particular.

When he checked up on her for the fourth time, Bulma sighed and gave in, asking what was so special about _these_ guests.

"Princes…" the manager had mumbled before waddling out.

Hearing that word sparked a sequence of reactions within Bulma. The first brought out her inner little girl who was thrilled at the chance to meet royalty. The second delighted her inner vanity, hungry for the luxuries that wooing a Prince could bring. But these feelings were all too fleeting, barely a whisper in her mind, because for Bulma, this wasn't the first Prince she had met, or Sheik, or Lord, or Emperor. She'd met dozens, perhaps a hundred or so by now, and most of them had been far from pleasant. Princes were some of the worst: entitled, spoilt, having dealt with little of the responsibility of their title but all of the pomp and privileges; they often looked down on everyone, especially women, as merely things to be used for their entertainment, and easily discarded when no longer needed. They were loud, and rude, and had fragile egos and a narrow, narcissistic world view. Dealing with a prince, let alone _princes_ , was probably more trouble than it was worth, but she wasn't Miss Saturday for no reason. If she had to put on a fake smile and grin and bear their obnoxious ways, then so be it. The show must go on, after all.

Bulma took her time primping as always. She wouldn't be performing for a while yet; the other girls who weren't Miss Saturday would warm up the crowd before she ever set foot on stage.

Soon the front doors were opened, men were seated, drinks were served, and girls began to dance and pose. Just another Galactic Saturday night at the Red Neutron Burlesque House.

Even after opening, the manager still had a bee in his bonnet about everyone being on point, and it was seriously starting to tick Bulma off. She asked for a girl to bring her a drink to help take the edge off, because honestly, performing burlesque was hard enough without feeling stressed out. Being stressed made her tense, and being tense made for a bad performance.

Bulma let the drink coat her tongue, warming her from the inside out as it slid down her throat, pooling hotly in her belly. The liquor was strong, her stomach empty, and it didn't take long for her to feel the effects, lulling her into a more pleasant, relaxed frame of mind.

She continued applying her make up and dressing herself, admiring her physique in front of her mirror, building up the confidence she'd need for her performance. She ran her fingers teasingly over her chest, trailing her hands where her skimpy black corset met her skin, her pillowed breasts nearly spilling out over the top. She felt her skin prickle with goosebumps as she teased herself, her nipples hardening under the sheer fabric. She let her hand slip down her sides, down to her legs where she pulled her stockings up higher before letting her fingers tease her inner thighs. Bulma bit her lip as she felt her body respond. It always helped to be just a little bit turned on, it made the show a lot more exciting, for her and the audience, as though each dance she executed was a sensual solo for a special someone, her own body thrumming with the excitement of the crowd's.

Primped and pampered, feeling buzzed with booze and arousal, Bulma decided to scope out the crowd. She peered surreptitiously through the curtains. She was just in time to see the manager scraping and bowing as he showed in a rather large party. They were all dressed in suits, immaculately tailored, with broad lapels that accentuated equally broad shoulders, and worn over vests and shirts, each outfit costing more than she made in a month, and she made -a lot- in tips. The head of the party was some smarmy looking white and purple alien. A prince, no doubt.

She watched as he and two other colorful men were settled at a comfortable table to drink and enjoy all the house had to offer, while also affording them some privacy. The other three in the entourage, who appeared almost human, moved to sit by the center stage. Bulma eyed them carefully, pleasantly surprised by their lack of alienness. There was one guy, big and bald, another with a mane of hair that would make a lion jealous, and then there was… grumpy.

And hot. Grumpy and definitely _hot_.

Bulma smiled to herself and let the curtains fall closed.

* * *

XxX

Vegeta let his companions manhandle him towards the main stage, his jaw clenched so hard he thought he might have to take a dip in a healing tank later on for a cracked jaw. He wasn't exactly used to curbing his rage. There was only one person who could make him do that, and that was Frieza who was exactly the reason why Vegeta wasn't smashing Nappa and Raditz's heads together right now and leaving this frilly, glittery, satin-draped hell hole to go do something more productive, like train. Or sleep. Or watch a fucking star die, because seriously that would be a whole hell of a lot better than, than… Whatever the fuck one was supposed to do in a place like this.

He was going to murder Nappa one day. He'd decided that just recently. Endangered Saiyan Race his ass, Nappa deserved a painful death after he'd let slip that is was Vegeta's birthday _right in front_ of Zarbon, who of course had instantly delighted in telling Frieza, and the prince and Emperor of half the goddamn universe had thought it would be hilarious to celebrate his 'favorite saiyan's' birthday. Yeah, like Frieza actually gave a damn about Vegeta's birthday. No one was buying that, but they all understood that for some inexplicable reason, Frieza considered Vegeta something akin to a pet, one he liked to torment as much as pamper, as if Vegeta was some sick psychological experiment and Frieza was waiting to see how Vegeta would break under the stress.

 _It's only proper to celebrate a Prince's birthday_. That's what Frieza had said with his slick little purple smile that Vegeta often dreamed of smashing his fist through during long, cold nights as he stared up at his metal ceiling and tried not to choke from the claustrophobia seeping into his skin.

To be honest, the venue of choice had been… quite a surprise. Nappa and Raditz certainly seemed happy enough with the burlesque house, as would almost any male under Frieza's reign, which is probably why Frieza had chosen the damn place, because of all the ways Frieza could have tortured Vegeta on his birthday, this certainly took the cake for the most creative and emotionally confusing. No one was going to give Vegeta any pity for being forced to attend burlesque, not that he wanted anyone's pity and he'd certainly not get it, because everyone was going to be too busy being _jealous_ of him, jealous that Frieza was 'playing favorites' and 'rewarding' Vegeta, which would only lead to more enemies that Vegeta was going to have to watch his back over.

Which of course, no doubt, was Frieza's plan all along. Fucking _great_.

And of course if Vegeta dared complain or refused to go, he was going to play exactly into Frieza's hand, because all that evil tyrant really wanted was any excuse to smack Vegeta around for his insolence and then throw him into solitary. And everyone would _still_ hate Vegeta for being an ungrateful prick. It was a lose-lose situation.

" _Please_ , Vegeta, it's the _Red Neutron_ ," Raditz whined, as if that name was supposed to mean anything. When Raditz saw it meant exactly fuck-all to Vegeta, he eagerly explained. "It's the best Burlesque House in the whole damn universe. We'd never be able to afford to go there otherwise. Can't you suck it up and take one for the team, boss?"

Vegeta shot Raditz a murderous look, incredulous at the notion that he, the _Prince_ of all Saiyans, was supposed to _suck it up_ and _take one for the team_. Nappa saw the death in Vegeta's eyes and hurried to interject before any unauthorized blood was shed. "Vegeta, you know if you throw a fit about this, Frieza wins."

"I do NOT _throw fits_ ," Vegeta snarled back at the older Saiyan. "Do you two not get it? I'm fucked no matter what I do. This is a punishment, not a birthday present."

"Why?" Raditz asked.

"HOW THE FUCK DO I KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON IN THAT SICK HEAD OF HIS?" Vegeta roared back.

Raditz gave Vegeta a very direct, piercing look that always unnerved Vegeta because Raditz being thoughtful was always a terrifying idea.

"No, I mean… why is the burlesque house such a punishment for you?"

Vegeta opened his mouth and then promptly shut it, furious because he had no way of answering that without losing face, and to be fair, he didn't really know how to put it into words either. It was demeaning, beneath him, to have to go to some place to _pay_ to have women dance provocatively for him. That might be fine for some men, but it shouldn't have been necessary for a Prince, and if he was being brutally honest, which he never would be, at least, not about _his feelings_ , then Vegeta might have admitted that he really had no idea what he was supposed to fucking do at a burlesque house. The whole thing felt not only like a trap, but contrived, and fake, and totally undignified.

"Everything he does, he does to _mock_ us," Vegeta finally spat back, turning away from his companions.

Raditz shrugged. "Yeah, but, Frieza wins only if you let it bother you, right? Why not beat him at his game and go and have a fun time?"

"Because I have some goddamn pride, you low class scum!" Vegeta shot back hotly.

"C'mon, Vegeta, we'll make it worth your while. Promise."

Vegeta gave Raditz a suspicious look. "What the… What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?"

Raditz held up his hands, seeing he'd crossed some invisible line somewhere. "Uh, n-nothing, boss. Nothing, we'll just be on our best behavior is all, a Prince couldn't want for better attendants than what we'll be, we swear."

At the 'we' Vegeta glanced at Nappa, and his large companion just shrugged as if to say, 'You can't fight Raditz-logic, just to give in'. Vegeta suddenly got the horrible idea that maybe, just maybe, this burlesque house thing hadn't been Frieza's idea at all, but _theirs_. Vegeta didn't dare ask because if the answer was yes, as he suddenly had a horrible feeling that it might be, then he was going to end up being the Prince of all Saiyans, population 1, because he'd be too busy brushing off Nappa and Raditz ki dust from his uniform.

So that's how Vegeta ended up here, at the Red Neutron, despite his better wishes. He figured that if Frieza was going to make him suffer one way or the other, then Vegeta was at least going to make the asshole spend some hard earned galactic credits doing so. Three saiyans could eat and drink a lot after all, and that didn't even include the cost of abiding by the establishment's dress code, which Frieza had also so _graciously_ seen to, providing the saiyans with a tailor. The suits they wore now were no Saiyan battle armor, but the garments were still pretty nice, the material and tailoring of the finest quality, and Vegeta couldn't complain about his colors, dressed in a muted grey, with a white silk shirt, blue vest and gold tie. Someone had done their homework on his color preferences.

And he also had to the admit that the place was a lot nicer than he'd given it credit for, not that it should have surprised him, what with the reputation this place carried. If he was going to sulk and gather more enemies amongst Frieza's cutthroat cronies, then there were certainly worse places he could be doing it at. Vegeta ordered a drink and when brought to him, he grabbed the girl's arm before she could leave.

"Another," he told her.

"A-already?" she stammered uncertainly. "But your ice will mel-" Her voice trailed off as Vegeta took the drink he had and drained the glass in a few, purposeful swallows, keeping the waitress' eye contact the whole time to show her just how serious he was. Then he handed her the empty glass, the ice cubes still perfectly intact, not even having the chance to melt.

" _Another_ ," he growled again, and the girl nodded and fled to fetch him another drink.

"Woo! That's the spirit, let's get drunk!" Raditz agreed, slapping Vegeta on the back, and it was only by the grace of Frieza's presence and perhaps the drink burning a hole in his stomach that Vegeta didn't punch Raditz right in the face for daring to touch him.

Vegeta glanced in Frieza's direction, the lizard-like asshole enjoying the view of some dancing girls, sipping a drink and exchanging pleasantries with Zarbon and Dodoria. Frieza must have felt his gaze, for his hard, soulless eyes swiveled over and locked with Vegeta's.

Frieza smiled sinuously, tipping his glass towards him in a mocking cheers.

Vegeta scowled and looked away with seething ill-feeling just as the waitress brought his second drink. He sipped this one much slower, the alcohol suddenly sitting unwell in his gut. The waitress hesitated, unsure if Vegeta was going to demand another beverage.

"Don't mind him, he's always like this, even on his birthday," Raditz declared, and dared to slap his hands on Vegeta and give him a little shake before Vegeta was able to roll his shoulders out of Raditz's too friendly grip.

"Oh! Happy Birthday, Mr…?" the waitress asked politely. He didn't answer her. A Prince didn't introduce himself to someone like her.

Nappa was happy to fill in the blanks. "Prince Vegeta," he said proudly. "The strongest of the Saiyans, proudest warrior of our people, last of the royal bloodline."

The girl bowed cutely. Vegeta didn't care, and when the waitress saw he didn't expect her to fetch another drink, she hurried off, leaving Vegeta to stew in silence, right up until the live band started to play, and then he stewed with accompaniment.

* * *

XxX

It was finally time for the main act. All the other girls had danced their routines; now, it was time for the big finale, time for Miss Saturday.

Bulma stood behind the curtain on the stage, waiting for the live band to strike her tune. They started playing a sensual jazz number, and the curtain slowly raised up, letting the dim light ghost over her body from heels to hair like the caress of a lover. She was cast in shadow, only the outline of her body visible to those below, allowing Bulma the chance to glimpse the crowd in secret before they could glimpse her.

Her eyes instantly sought out Mr Grumpy, Prince of the Somethings - whose birthday it was, she'd overheard, having peeked on them several times throughout the course of the evening. She was more than interested, she could admit to herself. It wasn't every day three large, good looking, and most importantly almost-human men graced her venue. It brought back feelings of nostalgia, of home, and of an aching need to connect with someone on a physical level. A very physical level.

But Mr Grumpy had stayed silent and distant the whole night, only speaking to order refreshments or berate his companions when they became too obnoxious. He'd barely even glanced at the dancing girls, and if he did, it was with assessing, disinterested eyes, and then he'd looked away again. He was going to be a challenge. Bulma knew she should just dance for his friends, she'd have an easier time that way, they'd eat up everything she had to offer _and_ ask for more if their lusts were anything like their appetites, but really, where was the fun in a sure thing? Besides, they didn't have that mystique that Mr Grumpy had going for him, or his good looks or refinement. And most of all, they weren't the ones sitting _right in the front_ and _not watching_. Mr. Grumpy simply had to be punished, Prince or not. Oh yes, Bulma was going to enjoy this. It always helped to have someone in particular to perform to, someone to whet her excitement and make her shiver in delight as she stripped herself, layer by layer for the audience. If she could crack Mr Grumpy, Bulma was sure she could conquer the universe.

Sure enough, with the curtain raised, Mr Grumpy was staring off into the distance, his face pulled in a petulant frown, his fingers (lovely, long, thick fingers) idly holding a crystal glass half filled with a caramel liquor. God he was gorgeous, suave, all brooding masculinity, primed and displayed at the end of her stage, served up just for her.

The cue in her music came, and Bulma started moving her hips, still cast in shadow, only her silhouette dancing sensually for the room. She enjoyed a slow tease. Mr. Grumpy's friend, Leo with his lion's mane, was already crowing for her, clearly drunk and enjoying himself immensely. Bulma smiled, but her eyes were on her prize, locked to Mr. Grumpy's sour face.

Finally the lights came on, and Bulma was revealed in a glittering dress and gloves, her entire outfit shimmering with diamantes, filling the room with sparkling light. She danced in time with the music, kicking out her hips to highlight her feminine curves, daring to show a sliver of stockinged leg through her split dress. After a few flirtatious smiles and twirls, Bulma brought her gloved hand to her mouth, and with a kittenish bite of her finger, wrenched the glove free of her hand, pulling the long cloth off. The room erupted in approval. Mr. Grumpy was still lost in thought.

Bulma threw the glove aside and did a little spin. She bit her other glove and this time pulled the garment off much slower, her eyes boring into the Prince's, willing him to look. He didn't. Once the glove had been removed, Bulma kept it between her teeth, keeping her hands free to run over her body, down her dress, caressing herself as she knew most of the men here wanted to. She turned, giving the audience her back as her dress fell away, revealing the black corset and pink frills she wore underneath, ropes of pearls wrapped around her like tinsel. As the men applauded and whistled, Bulma glanced at them coquettishly over her shoulder, before turning back around and throwing her glove directly at Mr. Grumpy.

That finally caught his attention. He blinked as the garment dropped in his lap and finally looked up towards the stage. She smiled, triumphant, and saw his eyes widened ever so subtly at the sight of her. Was he impressed, or merely taken aback to see a female of a similar species to his own? Whatever he felt, he didn't let the emotion show for long, quickly schooling his features as he turned away and passed the glove to Leo as if its presence offended him.

Bulma narrowed her gaze. Time to ramp things up. She grabbed her frills at her hips and swirled them as she danced, heading down the length of the stage, towards the suited trio. She winked at them suggestively before turning around, only inches from the tiered edge, and bent over. She was very flexible, able to fold perfectly in half, giving the men a lovely view of her long legs and pert behind. Then she supported her weight on her hands, and slid into the splits, sliding all the way down to the floor. She bent backwards, pooling down the tiers to the edge of the stage to look upside-down at Mr. Grumpy.

He was still ignoring her. Ohhh.. That was _it_. This was war. No one ignored Bulma, not when she was Miss Saturday.

Pulling up her legs up to get better leverage, Bulma reached back and _grabbed_ Mr. Grumpy's tie. He was going to look at her if she had to _make him do it._

* * *

XxX

He must have been out of it, because something grabbed his tie without him noticing, and suddenly he was being _pulled_ and he was so fucking startled that he forgot to resist.

For Vegeta, it felt like the whole world shattered; one minute he was brooding, the next, absolute chaos. He heard Nappa choking behind him while Raditz guffawed, the other men in the room cheering at the girl's performance, but that all seemed secondary to the fact that the most beautiful woman he'd probably ever seen (and who he'd been trying _not_ to see lest Frieza got any sick ideas) was reeling him in like a fish. She was now only inches from his face, and he could smell her, all powder and perfume and sugary sweet. Her face was flushed from dancing, and she was beaming up at him, _right up at HIM_. Vegeta gaped in outrage as she drew him down further, dragging his tie over her soft breasts, pulling him in even closer until their breaths mingled and he was bowed right over her as if to kiss her.

"Happy Birthday, Mr. Grumpy," she purred, her voice soft, her eyes hooded but dancing with a wicked light. Everything about her oozed sex appeal, from her voice to her eyes to her mouth, even to the way she was splayed so invitingly before him on the stage. Vegeta's breath left him, forced out of him, and for the briefest of moments, everything else ceased to matter except her beneath him, and he had the irrational urge to let himself be swallowed up in whatever it was she was tempting him with. But then she was letting him go, letting his tie slip from her grasp and she sat up, swiveling away, _leaving him_.

Or not, because she swiveled around 180 degrees until her long stockinged legs were hanging off the stage, and then she _slipped right into his lap_.

* * *

XxX

Bulma knew she was taking far too many liberties with her routine, but Mr Grumpy's reaction had been so much better than she ever could have hoped for. Indignation, surprise… and longing. She'd definitely seen the conflicted lust in his eyes, sparking her own, making her want flare wildly, leaving her aching, throbbing for more. For him.

She slipped into his lap, wrapping her arms about his powerful neck and started swaying to the music, still dancing, putting on a show for the crowd, but it was all for him. She swirled her hips, grinding against his rock hard thighs and arching back to jut her breasts towards him. He was still clutching his drink, his hands outstretched awkwardly at his sides, his face caught between rage and shock. But his eyes, his dark, black eyes didn't stop tracking her. Bulma felt like she could lose herself in those eyes, be happily burnt up by them.

She reached down and pulled her ruffles free from her outfit, letting them fall to the floor, leaving her in just a thong. She watched his face start to turn red, and she flashed her teeth, amused at his innocence. Well well, this one could still surprise her, that was cute.

She tried to pull him forward but he finally resisted, as unmovable as a rock. She didn't mind. As the music started towards its crescendo, Bulma arched all the way back, spilling down his legs until her hair touched the floor and she wrapped her legs about his neck for support. She undid her corset while she posed, and then splayed her legs, sitting up in his lap, now wearing just her pearls and little diamante pasties over her nipples, everything else bare for all to see.

The Prince choked, besides himself at the sight of her nudity, clearly having a mental breakdown as he experienced what must have been his first lap dance.

Bulma wasn't ready to take pity on him yet, after all, the end of her number was almost upon them. She scooped up her ruffles and from within produced two hidden pink balloons. She held them in her hands and reached up towards the ceiling. At just the right moment, timed with the music, she crushed the balloons in her fists, sending water splooshing all over her breasts and body, letting it splash her enticingly, incidentally wetting poor Mr. Grumpy's lap in the process.

The music came to a climatic stop, and the room went wild for her grand finish. Leo was cheering the loudest over Mr. Grumpy's shoulder. Baldy was looking almost as red as the Prince, whether from suppressed laughter or indignation, Bulma couldn't tell, but she barely paid them any attention because she still had eyes only for the Prince beneath her wet thighs.

Mr Grumpy seemed to be in a state of shock, sitting under her, stiff and listless. Bulma folded her arms on his chest and leaned in, whispering against his cheek. "Thanks for the ride. Sorry about the mess."

She stood, gathered her things and strutted up on stage, giving everyone else a friendly wave and final peek, basking in their applause before dancing away, a salacious smile plastered to her face. Perhaps princes weren't so bad after all.

* * *

XxX

Vegeta couldn't move. He'd forgotten how.

"S-sire?" Nappa asked him, being unusually formal, perhaps fearing for their lives as he rightly should be.

"I think he's broken," Raditz chimed in, waving his hand in front of Vegeta's face.

Raditz making any kind of diagnosis was offensive enough to snap him out of it. Vegeta slapped Raditz's hand away and snarled, standing up. He looked down at his suit pants, soaked in water and still warm from where _she'd_ been pressed against him.

The sheer _audacity_ of that woman to have been _touching him_. He was livid, _at her_ , a voice said, but deep down he knew he was furious at himself.

What the fuck had he done to stop it? Absolutely nothing.

Because he hadn't wanted her to stop.

Fuck.

"I need some fresh air," he announced in a tone that would make sure no one would follow him. He stomped out of the lounge and out onto the deck that skirted the Red Neutron, domed under a generated forcefield that supported the artificial atmosphere, and provided a clear view of the galaxy overhead.

He rested his arms against the deck's railing and looked out at the moon the burlesque house was situated on, trying to shake the notion that inside, Frieza and the others were laughing at him. The whole event had probably been set up from the beginning, that _vile wench_. Of _course_ they'd get the one girl who actually looked Saiyan-ish to rile him up. She was probably laughing at him too, in fact, he was fairly sure he'd seen her do so as she'd writhed, practically naked, in his lap.

Vulgar. Demeaning. Unseemly.

… So why had it been so hard not to drop his drink and wrap his arms around her tiny waist and bury his face in her breasts?

Damn her, and _damn this place_.

"Well, hello again."

His shoulders tensed, and he turned his face just enough to glare at her from the corner of his eye. She was dressed, well, mostly, back in her ruffles and corset at least, two drinks in her hand, one a sugary cocktail, the other looking suspiciously like the drink he'd been ordering all night.

"I figured I owed you," she said, offering the glass to him with a come-hither smile.

He didn't take it, just glared at her. After an awkward moment, she placed the drink next to him on the railing, unfazed by his lack of friendliness.

"Well, rumor is that you and your entourage are staying in the guests suites tonight," she said amiably.

Despite himself, he smirked, standing up just a little taller. _His_ entourage, not Frieza's. He knew it was a mistake, a misunderstanding on her part, but he couldn't help puffing up a little regardless. So, she thought he was the Alpha? Not that she was _wrong_ , she just didn't know that there was another, more powerful Alpha at the table at the back of the lounge who called all the shots. No matter, she didn't need to know about Frieza and he certainly wasn't going to correct her.

Her unknowing flattery earned her the right to be acknowledged, so he turned to face her and accepted the drink. He swirled the ice around the glass. "Are you going to pay for my dry cleaning too?" he asked, indicating his wet trousers.

She scoffed, fluffing her hair back. "You look like you can handle that yourself."

Vegeta made a dismissive sound. Like he'd ever lower himself to menial labor. He gave her a sidelong look as she leaned over the railing, sipping her drink and staring off into the stars. Her breasts were in danger of falling out of her top, and the sliver of thigh between skirt and stocking was making his finger tap the railing in an agitation he didn't understand.

 _You're staring_ , he warned himself.

No, I'm sizing her up, _not_ admiring her and definitely _not_ trying to remember what she'd looked like and felt like, earlier in our lap…

He cleared his throat and looked away, finished 'sizing'. "You're not Saiyan," he said, a statement, not a question, although the similarities between them were uncanny.

She looked at him, cocking a finely arched brow, tilting her head so that her teal waves tumbled across her pale, bare shoulder. "A what?" Realization dawned on her face. "Oh, is that what you are? No, I'm human, but maybe our people share ancient ancestors or something?" she smiled, and nudged his side with her dainty elbow.

He sneered at the notion that she could be some Saiyan relative; the _impertinence_ of such a claim. He'd have killed others for less. Instead, he refrained from reacting to her gentle nudge, the only sign it bothered him his fingers tightening around his glass. "I doubt it," is all he said, putting that matter to rest.

Or so he thought. "Really?" she asked, stepping in closer to him, close enough that he could feel her heat, and it surprised him that he wanted to lean towards it rather than away. "You look like you could be human," she said in her soft, purring voice, and he would have said something about such an outrageous, insulting remark except she was _running her hand_ up his arm, over his bicep, clearly admiring his physique, and the hungry look she was giving him was enough to shut him up. His throat bobbed when her blue eyes flicked up to meet his own, and he saw something hungry in her gaze. "I wonder how far the similarities run underneath."

"Underneath?" he growled, struggling to not crush the glass in his hand, his focus wholly on where she was touching him.

Her cute little smile widened, and she gave a mischievous nod. "Underneath all this," she said, and both their eyes were drawn to watch her hand as it ran down his front, her fingers once more trailing the golden tie he wore, following it down, down, her fingers brushing over his broad chest, down his abdominals, past his flinching stomach… "You've already seen most of me. How do I compare, to a female Saiyan?" she asked, and looked up at him from under half lidded eyes, her fingers now resting at the hem of his pants.

How did she compare? _Like a wet fucking dream_. Vegeta wasn't given to flattery, for him, there was only facts, and she had looked, _did_ look, like the tastiest drink of water a man dying of thirst could have hoped for. But he couldn't exactly tell her that, could he? His pride wouldn't allow it. So he latched on to the first major difference his brain could process.

"Weak," he choked out.

Her hand stilled, and she gave him an odd look. "Weak?"

He sucked in a deep breath, trying to gather himself, pull all the pieces back together that she was shaking up so easily. "Weak," he repeated, more certainly this time. "Saiyans are warriors, hard, strong. You're weak, soft. I could crush you in an instant."

Good, finally, his brain had started working again. That would put her back in her place, teach her some fear, rattle her enough to-

"Would you?" she asked, her voice a bedroom whisper, and she stepped in, pressing herself against him. "Crush me?"

 _Oh fuck_.

Her hand found him through his pants, and against the wet fabric, what she was doing felt _incredible_ and _fuck_ he hadn't even noticed that he'd grown hard, but apparently _she had_ and she had no qualms about that fact. She leaned up on her toes and her mouth was next to his, her breath sweet from her drink and whatever gloss she had on her lips. "I thought perhaps, if you wanted some company…?" she offered suggestively. His body was screaming at him to accept, already swollen and hard and when was the last time _that_ had happened? When was the last time he'd had any pleasure, had anything good, just a night of no strings attached wanton pleasure with a woman who looked and smelt and felt better than anything his imagination could have come up with?

Oh right, _never_. Because Vegeta wasn't allowed a good time unless it involved coating his hands up to his elbows in blood.

He shoved her away. She stumbled back, startled, and he sneered at her, not buying the act.

 _She_ wanted _him_? Just like that? Like fucking _hell_. The whole thing was too good to be true, and suddenly the whole situation reeked of Frieza. Or at best, stank of his two incompetent underlings. Either way, he wasn't going to owe anyone a fuck.

As the woman gathered herself, eyeing him with a hurt look, Vegeta brought his drink to his mouth and sucked the liquid down in one angry swallow. He slammed the empty glass on the railing. "No thanks. I've better ways to spend my credits than on some cheap, used-up whore."

Take that, Frieza, and your free fuck. Not today, _not ever_.

As the woman's face twisted in ire, Vegeta turned and left. He cocked his head to the side just in time to avoid the glass she threw his way. It whizzed harmlessly by his ear, and shattered on the deck as he stepped back inside.

* * *

XxX

Bulma watched the glass explode on the ground as Mr. Grumpy - scratch that, Mr. A-Grade _Asshole_ \- went back into the Red Neutron.

Fuck him. _Fuck him!_ Fuck his ego, fuck his stupid frowny face, fuck his impossibly broad chest and shoulders and large arms and hard cock… Arrgghhh, FUCK EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM!

Bulma threw her own drink after him for good measure, watching the crystal shatter like her hopes. How _dare_ he?! She was NOT cheap, and she certainly was NOT a whore. _What a prick_. No, Bulma Briefs was just a woman, a desperately lonely, horny woman who had finally seen a good looking human-esque man, and she'd thought, fuck it, why not? They were consenting adults, and he certainly looked like he could have used a good fuck and she definitely knew she could have used one too because it had been such an embarrassingly long time since her last relationship that she was starting to wonder if you could regain your virginity after a certain period of abstinence.

But no. Of course, she had to pick a _Prince_ , and not just any prince, but one who was a total, utter, _dick_ , more so than most.

 _You should have known better, you dumb girl._ _Princes are the_ worst.

Fuming and insulted and now steaming with unfulfilled lust, Bulma stomped away, giving serious thought to batting for the other team.

* * *

XxX

They weren't in the Neutron. Vegeta looked around the empty chairs, wondering where 'his entourage' had gone when the simpering manager of the establishment came scurrying over and informed him that his party had already retired to the guest apartments. He gave Vegeta directions and Vegeta left to find his room.

Well, if _that_ wasn't suspicions confirmed, he didn't know what was. Frieza had clearly paid the blue-haired harlot to fuck him, which is why they'd all left, thinking he was occupied. Vegeta didn't know what Frieza was supposed to get out of it, perhaps the whore was supposed to pry secrets from him in his moment of weakness between her thighs, tch, like he'd _ever_ tell anything meaningful to a _whore_. Or maybe she was meant to de-man him in some way, or simply show him a good time and then inform him that Frieza had paid for it, leaving Vegeta to live with the thought that _Frieza_ was as responsible for his orgasm, and _that_ was a truly horrifying thought, now wasn't it?

Well, Frieza, you smug bastard, not tonight. You can take your cheap tricks and women, and your dirty credits, and shove them up your-

"Vegeta!"

He winced as Raditz shouted his name with more familiarity than the lower class saiyan should have any right to use. Vegeta saw his two companions standing suspiciously about the door to his guest suite, and Raditz looked more excited than usual. Vegeta approached them, glowering.

"What the fuck do you two want?" he snapped at them.

Raditz beamed. "Alright, boss, now, don't be mad, but we got you something for your birthday."

Vegeta was mad. Not because they'd got him something, but because Raditz had told him not to be mad, and he only did that when he'd done something that Vegeta was sure to get mad about. It was just easier to cut to the chase and be mad from the get go.

Vegeta glared at them, saying nothing, waiting for them to explain. He watched them sweat until Nappa finally gave in.

"We got you a girl."

Vegeta's whole body tensed, his hands fisting. So, it hadn't been Frieza, but them. He should have known even Frieza wouldn't have paid for his pleasure. No, hiring a girl had Raditz's name all over it now that he thought about it.

 _And would that be so bad_ , a little, conniving voice whispered in his mind. He killed that voice just as he was bout to kill his companions. He glared at them humorlessly. "I know. The blue haired girl."

Raditz and Nappa exchanged a look, and Vegeta felt something he didn't often feel. Doubt.

"Uh, no, actually," Raditz said, looking apologetic. "We _did_ try, but they said she uh, wasn't on the market."

Vegeta frowned, not understanding. Raditz took his scowl as disapproval and stumbled over his words to explain.

"Really, we did, we offered way more than we should have, but they said she never sleeps with clients, can't be bought. Apparently she's independently wealthy, just dances for shits and giggles or something, who the fuck knows; women, right? BUT, we got you the next best one, we swear, and I bet we could have her dye her hair blue, if that's what you're into…" his voice trailed off as he saw the odd look twisting Vegeta's face.

Vegeta was struggling to process what Raditz was telling him. So they _had_ paid for a girl for him, but it _wasn't_ the one who'd given him a lap dance and just come on to him on the deck? _That_ girl couldn't be bought? But that didn't make sense. She'd come onto him so strong, practically fucked him right there on the deck. If no one had paid her to do so, then…

… Then she'd done all that because she'd wanted him of her own volition.

And he'd turned her down. The only thing that had gotten him excited in months, years even, and he'd _turned it down_.

Not just turned it down. _You called her a_ whore _. Nice job._

He started laughing. Raditz and Nappa exchanged a worried look as Vegeta felt the sound bubble out of him, putting a hand against the wall to steady himself as he couldn't stop, the laugh growing louder and louder and poured out of him in painful gasps, echoing down the hallway.

Even when Frieza did nothing, the tyrant still managed to fuck up Vegeta's life. Vegeta was so suspicious of the asshole that he'd just blown away the one chance he'd probably ever have in his miserable existence for a friendly one night stand. Vegeta just couldn't accept that someone might actually want him of their own goddamn free will, no, it had to be Frieza. How twisted was that?

He punched his fist through the wall, satisfied when Raditz and Nappa jumped. When his laughter died, feeling ashen in his mouth, Vegeta turned and left his companions without a word. He wondered if the blue haired woman was still on the moon. She probably wanted nothing to do with him, and he should have adopted a similar attitude, but to hell with that, he was a little bit drunk, and he'd already been stripped of just about everything else in his wretched life, so why not gamble what little he had left on the chance to prove Frieza wrong, to claw out from under the tyrant's shadow and bury himself inside the woman with the hope that the memory might sustain him for the years to come, that even if he died one day under Frieza's thumb, that for just one miserable, pathetic night, Vegeta had spent an evening with somebody who _actually wanted to be with him._

And who he actually wanted to be with also. Wasn't that a novel fucking idea?

* * *

XXXxxxXXX

* * *

 **AN:** Oh man, I've been slaving over this so hard the last few days, probably needs to be proof read more, but I need to move on to other projects. It took longer and turned out longer than I had first anticipated, phew! Hope you all enjoyed. Again, checkout VEGETApsycho's art, she's the fucking bomb.

If you like my writing, check out my other Vegebul fanfics ;)

Also, is it just me, or does this feel like it needs a sequel? I dunno, my one shots are usually pretty much that, one shots, but I feel like I could be convinced pretty easily to write a follow up to this, haha. What do you think? :)


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